


Miss Fell and Miss Crowley Go On Holiday

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Friendship, Queerplatonic Relationships, Summer Vacation, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: The summer heat in London is simply unbearable. So what else is there to do but rent a cottage for several weeks, and get out of the city?Crowley and Aziraphale have been the best of friends since they were children. They don't, quite, have the words for their aromantic, asexual relationship, but that's far less important than where to get a decent cup of tea in the little village of Netherhope, or which hill they should climb that day. A middle-aged artist and writer in the interwar period, they set off for a refreshing, genteel holiday. And that's even what mostly happens.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Our Heroines Escape the City

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to yet another AU! I am very excited about this one, if only because I get to write my very best Dorothy L. Sayers pastiche. (Incidentally, I have shamelessly borrowed a character from her, though she is only mentioned so far.) I am also very excited to write an aro-ace life partnership; they love each other deeply in their own way. It's something not quite friendship (although they are very, very dear friends), but there's no romance or sexual desire about it.
> 
> Anyway -- enjoy! I expect this will update every 1-2 weeks; as per usual I'm writing as I go, so it'll be something of a surprise for us all.

“I can no longer stand this. It is not to be withstood,” Crowley announced loudly whilst fanning herself.

“I can't even disagree,” Aziraphale said miserably, lifting her chignon, trying to cool the back of her neck off. “Whoever heard of a heatwave in London?”

“We have,” Crowley said grimly. She was lying about in her slip and naught else, and Aziraphale would have been blushing except that Crowley was her oldest friend in the world, in addition to having was Aziraphale suspected was a nudist streak, so any modesty between them was long gone – or had never really formed. “If I had tits, I'd be sweating them off.”

“You have tits, just small ones,” Aziraphale said absentmindedly, shuffling through the mail. No cheques, but no bills either – a good day. Crowley's inheritance meant they didn't have to _truly_ worry about the bills, but Aziraphale liked to try to pay her own way as much as she could. She hadn't been able to write in days, though, not with the weather as it was.

“You're right,” she said suddenly, looking up once the mail was done with. “It's _not_ to be borne. My dear, we must go on _holiday_.”

Crowley nearly perked up, then looked at her askance. “What kind of holiday? You know I can't abide another tour of churches.”

Aziraphale gave her a disgusted look. “How can you be an artist and be so uncultured? No, we must go to the countryside, dear girl. It is the only path left to us that makes sense.”

Crowley, who was unaware that various paths available to them were closed, decided that Aziraphale might be overly-dramatic, but she also wasn't wrong. “Quite,” she said. “Where to?”

“You let _me_ handle that,” Aziraphale said, and although Crowley wasn't precisely confident now, she knew they'd at least be kept in the manner to which they'd become accustomed. Aziraphale was good with money, and better with making it stretch to keep them in definite comfort, if not a little measure of luxury. Hadn't she talked them into this lovely flat on Mecklenburg Square? A room for each of them, and a ridiculous amount of light such that their sitting room could serve as Crowley's studio. Neither of them could abide cooking, so a little spirit stove was fine to boil water for tea, or occasionally an egg if they were too lazy to go out. Yes, Aziraphale sometimes had funny ideas of what constituted an enjoyable time, but the woman could be trusted with a holiday, so Crowley did so.

She found her trust rewarded, as Aziraphale secured them a lovely little cottage in the Peak District. She made sure it was quite far from the nearest city, but rather close to the picturesque village of Netherhope which, she informed an already deeply bored Crowley, contained the remains of a twelfth-century church with several unique features that would be very interesting to visit and examine.

“Also there's a tea shop that Katharine Climpson swears is _divine_ ,” Aziraphale said, in a bid to make Crowley more interested.

“Lovely,” Crowley said, wondering more about the pubs, but reckoned they could do well enough. There would, at least, surely be a place to buy a few bottles of Bass and sandwiches for a good tromp in the countryside. The real gift was being out of the city, and if she had to get dragged along to look at a brass for Lord So-and-so in some distant church, well, it was a fair price to pay. Besides, Aziraphale usually knew some deliciously scandalous thing Lord So-and-so's son had done to keep _his_ brass _conspicuously_ absent, and she was usually delighted to tell Crowley this in tones of visceral glee.

In between halfheartedly packing clothes and paints and the like, Crowley managed to shake down her pals for non-dreary places to go, culminating in supper with one Angharad Jones, a terrifying older woman whom Crowley was half in love with. She had been one of Burne-Jones' models in her youth, and had been kind enough to sit for Crowley now and again, her wild romantic beauty still firmly in place. She had hacked her hair short as soon as it was remotely acceptable, ran about in bloomers, had been arrested several times, and was currently in the process of becoming a keen velocipedestrienne at the age of sixty-five. Crowley desperately wanted to be Angharad when she grew up, and she also had the advantage of having stayed several summers in and around Netherhope.

“Oh, you'll simply adore it,” she boomed out in her deep contralto as Crowley ordered them another round of drinks. “Lovely countryside. You're going with Miss Fell? Good, good. Try to get her to pose draped only in flowers against some wild fell, you'll scandalize the Royal Society and make a piece of real art.”

Aziraphale, who was quite conservative (little-c, she would actually die before voting for a Tory) in general, made an exception when she posed for Crowley, and could generally not get her kit off fast enough if it was to, as she put it “engage in the marriage of our minds and talents in creating something of beauty in the world”. Crowley just liked her because she knew how to hold still and could fall back into a pose with perfect accuracy.

(Well, all right, and she was lovely, and they  _did_ work well together. She liked painting Aziraphale; and she liked how she captured her friend's beauty, but also her...everything. She just didn't feel the need to tell the whole bloody  _world_ about it.)

“Consider it done,” Crowley said. “But, and this is the important part – will we actually starve to death? You know neither of us can do more than boil an egg.”

Another booming laugh, and Crowley went all wobbly inside. She had never wished to go with anyone, man or woman, and sex was  _right_ out, but she did enjoy falling in love in her own way, and Angharad rather consumed her with infatuation.

“Quite right, too,” she said. “You both need wives, but I know that's futile. The food isn't going to bring home a prize, but you'll eat well enough. There's a decent pub, and an equally decent restaurant. They're the only ones, so you can't miss 'em. And a market to buy eggs and bread and the like,” she instructed. “And don't dismiss your girl's tea shop, they do an excellent luncheon, set you up for a day of hillwalking like you wouldn't believe.”

“Bless you,” Crowley said. “I generally trust Aziraphale to find us some good grub, of course, but I think her head's been turned by the history.” She sighed. “And the general getting out of the heat, not that I blame her.”

“Quite right, this city is unbearable in the summer,” Angharad agreed, and talk turned to other things, this and that and people they'd known and who was exhibiting where and who couldn't get an exhibition to save their lives and who was pretending that meant they were very, very avant-garde.

And so it was a much happier (and definitely tipsy) Crowley who returned home to finish throwing a few things into various bags, hoping vaguely she'd have enough clean knickers, and finally tumbling into her bed while still listening to Aziraphale methodically pack a costume for every occasion, to say nothing of her books and pens. Holiday or no, Crowley would paint and Aziraphale would write, for that was who they were and what they did. And they would do it together, for that was who they were as well.

The morning they finally left for their holidays was a bit chaotic, with Aziraphale fretting over whether she had enough supplies, and running out to pick up some more notebooks while Crowley half-heartedly got dressed and burned the toast and Aziraphale then had to practically re-pack every single thing she'd brought and Crowley threw on any old dress just to irritate her friend, who had Ideas about Travel. They had a spat, hissing at each other like wet cats, and just as quickly made up, made it to the station in just enough time, and settled in their compartment precisely as the train pulled away.

They both sighed simultaneously, and grinned at one another, the fight of the morning immediately forgotten. They'd been like that since the day they met, twelve year's old at Dame Tracy's Finishing School, where Aziraphale had shared her umbrella with Crowley on a rainy day.

(Crowley, not always sure what to do with all her feelings, had pushed Aziraphale off of the wall around the school two weeks later. Aziraphale had grabbed her on the way down and they'd both wound up in the infirmary on bed rest, their fast friendship immediately cemented. They had never lived apart since that day, and saw no reason ever to do so.)

“I swear, it's already cooler,” Aziraphale said as they chugged gently through the stately neighbourhoods of London.

“Quite,” Crowley agreed, fanning herself absently. “Gosh, this really was just the thing.”

Aziraphale, who had never forgotten that it was her idea, smiled proudly. “I can already feel my next stories coming on. I'm quite sure I shall write absolute reams.”

“Good thing you've got so many notebooks,” Crowley said drily. Aziraphale wrote in precisely two genres: improving religious stories for children, and breathtaking erotica for adults. Crowley was her biggest fan across the board. 

(She actually liked the improving stories the best. They were always full of a great deal of adventure and often were quite dramatic when it came to, say, someone misbehaving and being shown the error of their ways, usually with impressive descriptions of outright gore. Crowley also often recognised herself in the bad little girls and boys, and was  _decidedly_ proud about this. The erotica, by contrast, was nice and very well-written and quite sexy, but lacked a certain  _pizzazz_ .)

“I shall write another about you,” Aziraphale said, not fooled in the least by sarcasm. “Little Antonia, who always mocked her best friend and wasn't nice and didn't read her Bible.”

Crowley pressed a hand to her heart in mock horror. “ _Me_ ?”

“You,” Aziraphale said.

“How does she learn the error of her ways?” Crowley asked curiously, and Aziraphale shrugged.

“That will come to me. But the very end will be her and her best friend walking to church together to hear the Good Word,” Aziraphale said. She was a devoted agnostic, but had been raised to be very religious, and could quote chapter and verse in the most inconvenient ways. Watching Aziraphale take on bigots was always good entertainment.

“Oh, she gets to keep her friend?” Crowley asked, actually touched. “Really?”

“Really, my dear.” They were reaching the green suburbs, and Aziraphale smiled, looking out of the window, her hands neatly folded on her lap. “Of course she keeps her best friend – once they make up. There's nothing so good in life as having a dear friend by your side in everything.”

“Mushy old angel,” Crowley said fondly, and caught Aziraphale's eye, smiling. “May I sketch you? You do look dashing today. Yes, just looking out of the window – bless you dear, hold that angle?” Her sketchbook was always close at hand, and a pencil, and it was ever so nice that they had the compartment to themselves, at least thus far.

She had just made quite a good likeness of Aziraphale when someone else joined their carriage, a man of middle age who nodded to them both and immediately buried his face in a newspaper.

Crowley, who couldn't abide small talk, appreciated this immensely. She added a few finishing touches to the sketch – not her best, but she felt she had at least partly captured some aspect of Aziraphale. She was impudent and funny and very smart, but there was a soft uncertainty about her; she doubted her place in the world., and it showed on her face. It made Crowley have a lot of feelings, and want to push  _other_ people off of a wall[1], but she was always a little proud when she was able to show it, somehow, in her drawings of Aziraphale.

She set her sketchbook aside, shared a smile with her companion, and Aziraphale read her novel while Crowley watched England speed by and daydreamed about their coming adventure in the country. It was going to be simply  _smashing_ , she just knew it!

11 Let no one say that Crowley had not managed some personal growth in the thirty years since she'd walked up to the edge of the wall, said hello to a chubby, yellow-haired girl, and given her a hearty shove, only to find a  _very_ solid grip on her arm and the ground  _rather_ closer than it had been a nanosecond before.[return to text]


	2. Our Heroines Settle In The Countryside

“Well, it's got charm,” Crowley said.

“It's got _dust_ ,” Aziraphale said, her nose wrinkling up. “And is that a bird's nest?”

Crowley squinted, looking up at the funny corner where a pipe was sticking out. “Er. Possibly. I think it's, ah, vacated at the moment.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale said, looking around with her hands on her hips.

“You live in the dustiest room I've ever seen in my whole life,” Crowley pointed out. “Why be picky _now_?”

“It's not _my_ dust,” Aziraphale said. “Right, it's plumbed, let's find a mop.”

Crowley moaned in protest, but trailed after Aziraphale to take stock of the cottage, their home for the next six weeks. It was a cozy old thing, a few hundred years old, and last scrubbed, Crowley estimated, approximately when Prince Albert was still alive. The rooms were a bit pokey, but a quick wash (for the plumbing, at least, was relatively modern, or quite possibly dated back to the Romans; it was even odds) revealed the quiet beauty of an unassuming English country house. A dark-panelled sitting-room was laden with comfortable chairs and sofas and quite a nice fireplace, while the windows actually seemed to let in some proper light, once they were wiped down with vinegar and newspaper. A small kitchen would do for tea and eggs and the like, and then upstairs was an unremarkable bathroom and two neat little bedrooms.

“Take the back one, it'll have better light,” Aziraphale said as they explored. “I'll be fine in the middle.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, hoping she was. The back bedroom was a bit larger, and had windows in three walls, as well as plenty of room for her to set up an easel, and perhaps a little scene, for Aziraphale to pose for her.

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, really rather kindly. “I've got a lovely little window seat, and the cunningest bed you ever saw.”

Crowley laughed and followed her into the middle room. Smaller and darker, but with beautiful murals on the walls, the promised padded window seat made it a little heaven for her friend. Crowley couldn't help but exclaim over quite a cunning little cabinet bed, when it was pointed out to her. The bed itself was smaller than hers, and tucked neatly into a great cupboard. When Aziraphale drew the doors closed, it was quite hidden away, and the room became a nice little study with a desk and chair by the fireplace. The roof was thatched, and gazing up Crowley could see the ancient work and the tightly-packed straw between the rafters. Someone had hung lavender and betony and rue, so that the room seemed a kind of medieval dream, and smelled wonderful.

“You and your working all night,” Crowley said, for it was good form to grizzle at one another. “You have to sleep some, you know – Angharad said I ought to paint you against the hills, and there's churches and the like for you to visit.”

“Don't you be grumpy at me now, demon,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “We'll go tromping all over the hills. _And_ I shall write. We aren't all part cat and napping half the day away.”

“I have told you! I'm not napping, I'm simply resting my eyes and thinking!” Crowley protested.

“So you snore when you're awake now? I'll make a note of it.” Aziraphale opened her little cupboard-bed up again and bounced inside, laughing when Crowley joined her, the two of them sat up, legs sticking out straight and backs against the wall. Someone had at least made the beds with fresh linens for them, and they were sweet and ready for sleepy heads to dream away the heat of London.

“Good heavens,” Crowley said, wiggling her feet and enjoying the way her ankles cracked. “Why did we ever settle in town? This is the life, I'm not even sweating.”

“You needed to be in London if you were going to get anywhere with your art, and I couldn't give up the libraries and museums,” Aziraphale said dreamily, stretching out herself, raising up her arms and tilting her head back. Crowley admired the effect; she dressed rather old-fashioned, but it suited her, and her plump arms came out of her sleeves so nicely. “But oh, this is lovely.”

Crowley smiled and knocked against her lightly. “Right, you. Let's go find that teashop you liked so much, I'm utterly parched.”

“I could have a bit of a nibble,” Aziraphale agreed, and so they made themselves just about acceptable, and set out for Netherhope arm-in-arm.

They were really quite late for lunch, but the teashop set them up quite nicely with proper sandwiches – none of your watercress-and-and-not-much-else _here_ , but good ham and cheese on lovely thick slices of fresh bread, and that was to say nothing of the tea and generous slices of cake that went alongside.

“Oh, I shall like it here _very_ much,” Aziraphale decided, delicately wiping her mouth after cutting a frankly impressive swathe through the offerings laid before them. “Absolutely scrummy.”

Crowley, who had done her meal justice as well, agreed, and the two of them finished off the pot of tea. Vastly refreshed, they paid up and went to explore the little village.

It had to be said, exploring didn't take very long; there was the 12th-century church, with accompanying graveyard and elderly lych gate, both of which Crowley thoroughly approved of. She did like having someplace nice and a bit spooky to wander while Aziraphale squinted at faded murals or what-have-you. At least on the Continent there were often interesting statues of saints dying in particularly gorey and fascinating ways. A real strike against for the C of E, Crowley always thought, even if there were sometimes some very old and spooky pagan carvings on the exterior. Not enough, but one took what one could get, when one's life companion adored old churches.

Beyond the church, there was a dry-goods shop, a stationer, the usual butcher and grocer (they bought milk, tea, bread, jam, and eggs), the post office, and of course the promised restaurant and pub. Ten minutes later they'd got a decent bottle of hock from the pub, had walked the village from one end to the other, and were feeling a bit at loose ends.

“This is silly,” Crowley decided. “We _have_ forgotten how to holiday. Our cottage has a perfectly nice garden – let's buy a bottle of lemonade, and go and enjoy it there.”

So it was back to the grocer for the lemonade and a bag of eccles cakes. The two women distributed their parcels evenly, and began the comfortable tramp back to the house along paths that lead away from the main, rather dusty, road and through the pastoral landscape.

Aziraphale tilted her head back a moment – her complexion was a lost cause, but she _did_ burn so easily, and her hat was rather fetching she thought, if admittedly quite old-fashioned – and basked in the warm sunlight. None of the sticky oppressiveness of the city here; no, all was the sound of bees buzzing amid the heather and the birdsong echoing through the hills, and of course her and Crowley's soft footfalls along the path. It was simply a different world, and she breathed deeply, smiling and hurrying a little to catch up to her friend.

They set up shop all that afternoon in the garden and thoroughly enjoyed themselves, chatting when they liked, or when one thought of something to say to the other, and settled in contented silence the rest of the time. The very thought of going out again for dinner was too much to bear, so with their late lunch helping, they made a very respectable dinner of an omelette each, toast and jam, and of course the bottle of wine to accompany it.

Aziraphale set her candle down – there was no electricity or gas at the cottage, but little matter; candles and the like would do them nicely. She dressed for bed quickly, neatly hanging her dress and rolling her stockings and hanging up her corset to air out. _That_ was old-fashioned too, but not so very much, as she repeatedly told Crowley, and it was far more comfortable than the rubber things ladies wore these days! The arguments between them about Aziraphale being too old-fashioned were old and comfortable and delightfully worn-in; if one of them was having a bad day they might pick just such a fight with the other, as proof that there was goodness and continuity in the world.

(And it wasn't meant; not _really_. It was also sacred to the two of them. Someone at school had mocked Crowley when she showed up after half-term with fancy heeled and buttoned boots, and Aziraphale had had to sock them for making fun of her best friend. Besides, Crowley had looked, well, rather fetching in those boots!

What Crowley had done when someone teased Aziraphale after she'd sprained her knee in physical education class went down in school history, and is not fit for print.)

They were both in fine fettle that night, though, and didn't need the comfort of bickering. Aziraphale wriggled into her nightgown, added a warm wrapper and slippers, and crawled into her cupboard-bed, feeling deliciously cosy and safe. It wasn't unheard of for them to share a bed – usually after a late night gossip session, when the thought of walking the fifteen feet or so to one's own bed was simply unbearable – and Aziraphale thought she might quite like that once or twice over their hols, to just snuggle down with Crowley and both of them dream the night away in this cute little hideaway.

Tonight, though, she had it all to herself and was very glad of it, wiggling her toes and opening her notebook. She had _loads_ of ideas for stories now! Where had they all been in London? Anyway – she did need to write another rather spicy novella, and had just the idea.

“ _Oh! Sir!” Anne blushed and touched her cheek. “Why, Mr Addington, just because we're alone in this railway carriage, you think you can have your way with me?”_

“ _Do you want me to do so? Truly?” Mr Addington had quite a rakish way about him, and Anne couldn't deny that, well. She did so want to know what his hands felt like clasping her waist while he kissed her, or reaching up under her skirt..._

“ _I. Well, yes, I suppose I do!” Anne looked at him. “What do you think about that, then!”_

_Mr Addington smiled sweetly. “I think I should like to kiss you. But you ought to know something about me, Miss Brockleridge.”_

“ _Oh?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him as she'd read about other girls doing. She had never even been kissed, and now she was going to give herself to this handsome, kind man on the 12.48 out of Manchester!_

_Mr Addington kissed her cheek, and drew her hand down the front of his trousers. She was going to exclaim at his lack of, well,_ romance _, but her eyes widened when she only felt a cunny. “Oh!”_

“ _I'm a man,” Mr Addington said, and for a moment he looked...frightened. “I am. I just wasn't born that way.”_

“ _Well, that makes sense,” Anne said, and twisted her wrist. She felt a bit on firmer ground now, her fingertips finding that lovely little nub that had brought_ her _so much pleasure under the blankets at night. “Take me, Mr Addington, you must take me!”_

Aziraphale smiled, feeling very proud of herself. The many varied ways that Mr Addington would take her heroine would easily fill out the rest of the novella. For a virgin herself, she was _very_ good at writing sex, and found it easy, if sometimes a bit dull. There were lots of squishy bits, and it seemed all very fraught. She was quite glad that she'd never bothered with such things. She'd kissed Crowley, and it was nice, but they saw no need to make a _habit_ of such things.

(A man on the Underground had once kissed _her_ , but a very sharp hatpin and very good aim ensured he'd not be trying that again. Nor possibly bearing children.)

Her mind wasn't only on thoughts of romance, though – she really did want to write an improving story featuring Crowley, and she opened her other notebook for that.

“ _Look, Angela!” Antonia pulled the Bentley up beside her best friend. “Look what I found!”_

“ _Antonia Crowlee, did you steal that car!?” Angela demanded._

“ _I didn't! I'm just borrowing it,” Antonia said. “Come for a ride, it's neat!”_

“ _Absolutely not! I will not...not be aiding and abetting you,” Angela protested. She hugged her books closer. “Besides, I have Bible study.”_

“ _Aw, fine, go to your stupid Bible study,” Antonia said. “See if I care! I'm going to go have fun!” And she drove off, her skinny legs barely reaching the pedals._

_Deeply worried, Angela continued on her way._

_Antonia drove faster, taking the turns easily – look, she was_ good _at driving, at just fourteen years old! “Stupid Angela,” she muttered. “Stupid Bible study. I'm going to be a race car driver when I grow up, and I won't need any silly church!”_

_She turned to leave the village, honking the horn very loudly to clear off the road. In her haste and her rage and her selfishness, she missed the sign that said the bridge was out, and headed straight for it._

“ _Lookit me!” she yelled, gleeful as the road flashed by. “I'm going to --” She was cut off, though, far too fast to do anything as soon as she saw the road simply stop over the racing river. Too fast to do anything but scream, as the Bentley kept going, and her in it, straight off of the bridge and into the rushing rapids!_

_The next thing she knew, Antonia was slowly waking up. Her body felt heavy, and it hurt horrifically all over. She moaned and opened one eye and oh, there was Angela. Her best friend, sitting there with very red eyes, her bible open on her lap, silently reading to herself. She looked so worried, and Antonia felt absolutely horrible, knowing it was probably all her fault. She was going to be in so much trouble._

_She licked her lips and moaned when even_ that _hurt, and Angela looked up, tears in her eyes. “Antonia!” she cried out. “Oh, you're alive, you're alive!”_

_Antonia tried to smile, and groaned again. Whatever had she_ done _to herself?_

Aziraphale believed in starting with the best parts. Usually there was a bit more gorey description, but the trouble with driving a car straight into a raging river was that there wasn't anyone to _see_ it, not until they pulled her broken, near-lifeless body out of the water downriver. She made a mental note to have a kindly, deeply religious farmhand visit Antonia and describe, in-depth, her many injuries and just how much blood and gore and shattered ends of bones had been visible. Crowley would eat it up, along with the rest of Aziraphale's fans. Bloodthirsty little beasts, all of them, and she adored them all.

The unwritten rule was, Aziraphale could write the absolute _worst_ accidents for her little heroes and heroines if, by the end, they were sitting in church and singing hymns, tearful eyes gazing up as they communed with the Most Holy. Those were all right bits to write; like sex, she wasn't bad at them, just not very interested. Even the run-up to stealing the car and Antonia's long recovery – aided, of course, by her best friend who was sensible and good and loving, if perhaps a bit of a prig – would be loads more fun to write.

Fine, Angela was a _lot_ of a prig, but it wasn't her fault that Aziraphale made good money writing for a religious imprint who believed children ought to be clean and quiet and enjoy church. She tried to give her stories a little more of God's love and grace and kindness and a bit less direct scripture and preaching, and thought she did all right in the end. Besides, she made the press a boatload of money, so they couldn't complain too much.

Aziraphale bent over the notebook to get started on the extended description of Antonia's many serious injuries, the outward manifestation of her wickedness (in her publisher's eyes) and/or the unfortunate result of being very silly and driving a car into a river (in Aziraphale's and, inevitably, all of her readers' eyes).

Aziraphale worked until she was yawning, quite tuckered out by the adventurous day. But she was writing again and that always made her happy, and she'd have loads of melodramatic descriptions to share with Crowley over breakfast the next day, so that was well.

She rose and shed her dressing-gown and slippers, set her notebooks aside, blew out the candle, and settled in to sweet dreams in the cool air of the countryside, just waiting for the next adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> [dietraumerei.tumblr.com](http://dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


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